


Don't Listen To A Word I Say

by notmyrevolution



Series: Permanent [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fuck off," he snarls, low and venomous. He doesn't mean it, he knows he doesn't, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, because he just wants to be <i>left alone</i>. He hopes it's enough for Bahorel to get the hint. Except its not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Listen To A Word I Say

Everything is loud.

It's like an infinite echo in his head, the noise from the world mixing with the thoughts in his head and creating a harsh blend that Grantaire just wants to _stop_. He knows it must be mid-morning by now, he can tell because he's alone in the bed, which means Bahorel is up before him. Bahorel works in a bar, he's never awake before Grantaire, which means that Grantaire is late.

Except that he doesn't care, can't bring himself to care. He doesn't want to move from the cocoon of blankets he's surrounded himself in, let alone step out into the world and try and deal with things. He _can't_. He can't pick up a tattoo gun and listen to people's empty stories about why they're trusting him with precious memories and fragile meanings. He can't take on that kind of responsibility today, he can't be trusted with people, he can't be trusted to do things right.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Grantaire knows that what he's feeling isn't right. It's for this reason alone that he wants to sleep through today, because he knows that tomorrow he'll be less of a failure. He'll be useful tomorrow. He'll be _better_. He just needs to get through today. He's done this before, he can do it again and trying to keep this mantra going against the whispers telling him he's going to _fail this too_ , that he will _never be better_ is exhausting.

All Grantaire wants to do is sleep.

Except that Bahorel is home, Bahorel is awake and Bahorel _doesn't know_ about this. There's the sound of the door opening, and Grantaire knows what's coming next and he wants to _cry_ because he wants to left alone, _just for today_.

“Are you okay?” Bahorel asks, voice low with concern, “You sick or something? You're usually gone by now.”

“M'fine,” Grantaire says, hoping that'll be enough.

“Then how come you're still in bed?” Bahorel asks, pushing gently, and Grantaire _knows_ Bahorel doesn't know what's wrong, because Grantaire has _never_ talked about it. He knows Bahorel can't magically know to leave him alone, that's not how relationships work, but the idea of trying to explain _anything_ right now puts a hard pressure behind his eyes.

“I just don't feel like going to work,” Grantaire tries to explain, breathes slowly, and he wishes he could pull the blankets over his head and disappear. _He wishes he could have a drink_.

"Can't you just tell me what's wrong? I fucking hate guessing games," Bahorel sighs, folding his arms across his chest. They're on two different sides of the conversation, and the gap between them is getting wider.

"Then stop guessing," Grantaire snaps, words muffled by his pillow, and he wants to scream _stop asking_ instead.

"What and just let you mope pathetically all day?" Bahorel says, and it's same teasing as always, the same tone when they call each other dumbasses, but today it lodges in Grantaire's chest, adds pathetic to his arsenal of worthless and useless. Something in him snaps.

"Fuck off," he snarls, low and venomous. He doesn't mean it, he knows he doesn't, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, because he just wants to be _left alone_. He hopes it's enough for Bahorel to get the hint. Except its not.

"It's _my_ apartment," Bahorel says, with a coldness befitting Enjolras. Grantaire rolls out of bed at that, anger overwhelming his desire to escape the world. _My_ _apartment,_ his, like Grantaire's a temporary thing and he's not dealing with this, not today. He grabs his keys, his wallet, a hoodie to throw over the sweats he uses as PJs and leaves. He doesn't even bother with shoes. The apartment door slams behind him.

It's only then he realises he has no idea what to do next. Instead of being in bed he's outside dealing with a world that's dark and suffocating and all he wants is light and air. Everything feels like it's falling apart. _This isn't what he wanted._

He ends up at the apartment Jehan and Enjolras share.

Jehan looks surprised to see him, just for a moment, before he's frowning and studying Grantaire with a look that's far too knowing. Grantaire knows he could come up with any number of excuses for why he's here, but for once the truth just seems easier.

“I'm having a bad day and would like to just,” he begins, then pauses, sighing as he shoves a hand through his hair. “We had a fight. I'm having a _bad day_ and we had a fight.”

It's all the explanation Jehan needs to open the door for him.

\--

"I need a cigarette," Grantaire states, giving Enjolras a look.

"What makes you think--" Enjolras starts, but Grantaire holds up a hand. He's shaking.

"Don't. You get stressed around finals, you smoke when you're stressed. Enjolras, please," he says, proud of the way his voice only sounds _tired_ instead of the bone-deep exhaustion he feels. Enjolras watches him for a moment and _Christ, it's like trying to stare down a marble statue_ , but relents, digging into his bag and pulling out a pack that he tosses at Grantaire.

"Outside," Enjolras says simply, and goes back to his textbook.

He goes through about three cigarettes before Jehan comes out, holding his phone and looking cautious.

"He wants to know if you're here. What do you want me to say?" He asks, and Grantaire presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"I don't care, Jehan. I honestly _don't_ ," he says, and Jehan's mouth twists into a frown. It's not sympathy though, it's understanding, and that much Grantaire's thankful for. Jehan's phone rings then, and he ducks back inside. Grantaire hears a brief _yes he's here, no he's not mad at you, he'll be home when he's ready_ before the door closes and he's alone again.

He keeps track of time by the cigarettes he smokes, ten minutes each, which means its another half an hour when the door slides open again and Enjolras steps out. Grantaire tenses, his shoulders going tight, but Enjolras just sits down next to him, crowding close enough into his personal space that Grantaire can feel the warmth radiating out from his body. He holds out a hand in a wordless demand, and Grantaire passes over the cigarettes in response. There's a moment of quiet, where Enjolras plucks out a cigarette and lights it using Grantaire's lighter.

"The couch is made up," Enjolras says finally, smoke pluming from his lips as he speaks. "I'm spending the night at Combeferre's."

"You don't have to," Grantaire says, trying to quell the rising paranoia at being an _inconvenience._

"I know I don't," Enjolras says roughly and Grantaire laughs. It's hollow, but it's something.

"I don't need a saviour," he warns, fingers tightening around his cigarette. Enjolras gives him a look, and Grantaire remembers when he used to _hate_ Enjolras, remembers when he only associated with him because he was Jehan's boyfriend. Grantaire’s constantly surprised that they managed to become such good friends.

He drops his head against Enjolras's shoulder, feels him tense briefly before relaxing, because Enjolras is cold but he's rarely heartless, and they lapse into a comfortable silence.

\--

Grantaire doesn't sleep well. He dozes for a hour, before waking up to his stomach lurching. He stares at the ceiling, breathing deeply, and _Christ_ all he wants is for today to be over. He wants to sleep, it has to be past midnight, but his head is a riot of thoughts and won't shut up.

The bedroom door cracks open and Jehan steps out enough to let light spill out into the living room. He looks tired too.

"Grantaire," he say softly, and tilts his head in an unspoken invitation. Grantaire hesitates, before exhaling slowly and picking himself off the couch, padding over to the doorway. Jehan takes his hand loosely, giving him the option to pull away, and tugs him in. It's not the first time he's shared a bed with Jehan, their trip to California often had nights ending with them wrapped around each other, soaking up warmth and comfort.

Now, he hits the mattress, lets himself be surrounded by blankets, lets Jehan entangle him, arms around his waist. Grantaire doesn't know what to do with his hands for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists by his side, before reaching out and resting a hand on Jehan's ribs, over the roses that are his own work. It's nice. Jehan smells of florals that Grantaire couldn't hope to identify, and there's a lingering scent that Grantaire knows is uniquely Enjolras.

It is nice, but it's not right.

Jehan is small and curled into him, when Grantaire is used to being enveloped in big. Floral where there should be spice, pale white and watercolours, where there should be black lines and dark skin. It takes him far too long to fall asleep.

\--

He sleeps through the morning, wakes to an empty bed, the sound of activity in the kitchen and crushing guilt and paranoia. He knows it's time to go home, and most of him wants to. He wants to change into something that isn't an oversized hoodie and sweats, wants to shower, needs to sketch up designs for tomorrow's clients. He knows he has to get back to life _,_ get shit done, even if he doesn't want to, and more importantly he has to get back to Bahorel.

Jehan offers him breakfast, which is more like afternoon tea at this point, and he declines because he's taken up too much time and space here. He's not worth this much effort and he knows that if he keeps pushing to avoid this, it's going to get worse. It doesn't help quell the panic, though, and he leaves with his heart lodged in his throat.

The apartment is quiet when he gets back. He hopes for a moment that Bahorel isn't here, that he can keep avoiding this, except Bahorel steps out from the bedroom, and Grantaire feels frozen to the floor.

"R?" Bahorel asks cautiously, before he spots him. Grantaire doesn't move, and Bahorel looks so tired, he hasn't looked this tired since the night Grantaire broke his hand and relapsed _hard._ It sends Grantaire's guilt skyrocketing. He hates himself.

"Sorry,” he says quietly, not sure what else to say, feeling as tired as Bahorel looks. He doesn't know how to explain any of this, they haven't had to deal with it before, because Grantaire has been _better_. Bahorel just let's out a bark of laughter that sounds forced and loops an arm around Grantaire's shoulders.

"Shut up, asshole," Bahorel says, affectionately, _relieved,_ and Grantaire presses his face against Bahorel's chest and breathes in. He realises belatedly that Bahorel is breathing him in too, nose against his hair, lips against his forehead.

He can feel Bahorel’s breath huff against his skin as he mumbles, saying, "Our apartment. It ours, not mine. I'm a fucking idiot."

Grantaire knows that later they'll have to talk about this. He’ll have to explain these days and they’ll have conversations about coping and depression. He’ll talk until he’s hoarse about the drinking, about how he found a blank mind at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and how it doesn't ever go away, even if everything is okay. Later they'll talk, but for now, Grantaire is just glad to be _home._

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com)


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